The Mysterious Contents of the Margarine Tub
by CricketCat
Summary: And other such strange tales.  A series of drabbles and one-shots surrounding life at 221B.  No slash, just lots of randomness.  Updated sporadically.
1. Preparedness

**Yes, I've started dabbling in the **_**Sherlock**_** TV series.**** 'Tis my new drug of choice, I suppose. Since this is meant to be a collection of random stuff, I'll happily expand on any one-shot or drabble if you'd like me to. ;) Updates will be just as random, since I am a procrastinator by nature who suffers from chronic writer's block.**

**As always, constructive criticism is welcome. Flames, on the other hand, just make me drink more tea.**

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><p>John Watson had thought he'd known what he was getting into when he agreed to room with Sherlock Holmes. Of course, he'd thought he'd known what he was getting into in Afghanistan, but that was irrelevant now. The first tip-off should have been the skull on the mantle. No— the first tip off should have been the fact that Sherlock had left a riding crop in the <em>mortuary<em>, of all places. Yes, that was the first clue. Then the skull. And the fact that he could apparently tell you your life story just by looking at you. And the fact that he'd ensured Mrs. Hudson's husband's execution in Florida. And the fact that he considered his own brother to be his arch-enemy. Despite the warning signs, John hadn't noticed any of them. Or perhaps he'd been so desperate for something interesting to happen that he'd ignored them. Either way, he told himself he could handle it, and moved in to 221B Baker Street.

Now that he'd had a while to reflect, John realized that absolutely nothing could have prepared him for a life with Sherlock Holmes. Nothing could have prepared him for finding a jar of human eyeballs in the microwave, or chasing down a serial killer on his very first night at the flat. Nor could anything have prepared him for his first real date in years being ruined multiple times in the course of one evening. Nothing could have prepared him for opening up the freezer and discovering it had become Mrs. Hudson's new hiding place for the skull, along with what appeared to be some poor chap's left shoe. Over the past couple months, John had found all kinds of things in places they really shouldn't have been: a dictionary in the cupboard, a box of teeth in the breadbox, eggs in the window, and poisonous mushrooms in the toaster, for example. Which is why he really shouldn't have been surprised when he grabbed the margarine for his toast one morning and discovered it had acquired another occupant.

"Sherlock, why is there a finger in the margarine tub?"

"Don't touch it! A man's alibi depends on it."

John said nothing, merely closed the lid, wrote "Do not eat!" with a permanent marker on the outside, and returned the tub to the refrigerator. Nothing would surprise him after this. Nothing.

That is, of course, until he found the severed head on the middle shelf a few days later.


	2. Jam

**Yeah, I really don't know where this came from. By the way, does anyone know if Sherlock's skull has a name?**

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><p>Breakfast had never been the most important meal of the day for Sherlock Holmes. No meal had ever been the most important meal of the day for him, regardless of what parents and teachers and certain doctors told him. But with no case to occupy his mind, and John occupied with his new job at the clinic, Sherlock found that he could honestly think of nothing better to do besides have breakfast. The majority of the food in the kitchen was either contaminated or inedible, so he eventually settled for a slice of toast with Mrs. Hudson's strawberry jam. Neither was something he was particularly fond of, but it would do. Besides, his doctor had been harping on him to eat more often. Sherlock smirked at the thought. As if he had any other doctor. John was the only one he saw. Still, he'd made a conscious decision to eat more regularly, if only to escape that annoying nagging.<p>

A beep from his phone distracted him. Sherlock dug it out of his pocket to check. It was a text from Lestrade. Double murder on the other side of London. One of the bodies had been found in a refrigerator, and the other was covered in toothpaste. Finally, something interesting.

Sherlock deleted the message, sent a text to John with instructions, and quickly returned the jam jar to the fridge before he shot out the door in a flurry of coats and scarves.

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><p>The door slammed behind Sherlock as he dashed upstairs to the sitting room. He'd spent all day and half the night gathering the evidence he needed. Now all he had to do was prove the man's alibi. And for that, he needed margarine. The detective darted into the kitchen and strode toward the refrigerator, removing a plastic bag from his coat pocket containing a severed finger.<p>

As he opened the door and went to grab the margarine tub, Sherlock caught sight of something else. Jam oozed out from under the lid and onto the middle shelf where the jar was sitting in exactly the same position he had left it the previous morning… upside down. Stuck to the side was a Post-it note with John's handwriting on it.

_Dear Sherlock, _

_Really? _

—_JW_

Sherlock smirked, turned the jar upright, and wiped the jam off with a napkin.

And then he rammed the severed finger down in the margarine, closed the lid, put it back on the shelf, and left.


	3. Skullduggery

**Disclaimer (Since I neglected to put one on the previous chapters): Do you seriously think I own any of this? If I did, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction.**

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><p>It had become something of a game for Mrs. Hudson, hiding George from Sherlock. Every couple days or so, she would take the skull from its place on the mantle and find somewhere to stash it, at which point Sherlock would seek it out and return it, and the cycle would start again. Sort of a macabre version of hide-and-seek. And Sherlock's seeking expertise had forced Mrs. Hudson to get more creative in her hiding.<p>

The first time she had taken George (as she'd come to think of it; the skull did so remind her of him), she'd had a double motive. Firstly, it was to get the dreadful-looking thing off her mantle. Every time she entered the room, there it would sit, leering ghoulishly at her. Secondly, it was for Sherlock's own good. She'd hoped that by taking George, it might prompt Sherlock to be a bit more interested in his new flatmate and start talking to _him _instead of the skull. She'd been pleasantly surprised when her plan worked. She'd been unpleasantly surprised when she found George back on the mantle less than twenty-four hours after its sojourn into the broom closet downstairs. She then resorted to more original ideas.

In hindsight, the freezer probably was not the best of plans, if Dr. Watson's yelp of surprised fright was anything to go by. Neither was the dishes cabinet. Sherlock had found it in just over half an hour. Since then, George had been hidden in all kinds of strange locations: On top of the refrigerator, behind the toilet, underneath the bathroom sink, stuffed down in the sofa cushions, and tucked away in a potted plant, for instance. Perching it on top of the showerhead, Dr. Watson still said, took the cake. He'd been less-than-thrilled to find it roosting up there.

All the same, Sherlock had succeeded in relocating the missing George every time Mrs. Hudson stole it. The longest it had taken him was three days, and only because he was preoccupied with a case. This new hiding place, she told herself as she spirited George away for the umpteenth time, would have to be superb. It took her less than an hour to find the perfect spot. Sherlock spent a week scouring 221B from top to bottom, and did not find it.

After nearly two weeks, Martha Hudson came to the conclusion that she had finally found the one place Sherlock would never look: Her sock drawer.


	4. Closeted

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I'm still waiting on a copy of the Season 1 DVD.**

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><p>"Move over."<p>

"Sherlock, I can't move over."

"I need more room."

"I _have _no room."

"You could have picked a better spot," Sherlock said, somewhat peevishly. "As a soldier, I should think your ability to think on your feet would be much more proficient than this."

"I'll remember that the next time you ask my opinion on hiding places," came John's sharp retort.

"I suppose there are worse places we could be hiding," the detective admitted.

"Such as?"

"Up a chimney, under a bed, in a garbage Dumpster, _in _a bed…"

"Sherlock!"

"John, I understand your irritation, but I must point out that shouting my name for the whole street to hear completely defeats the purpose of hiding me to begin with."

"Oh, so it's just you we're hiding now, is it?"

"No, you were an accomplice to the crime."

"Barely," John pointed out.

"True, but you were in the room. That makes you just as guilty as I am."

"I don't think Lestrade will see it that way. Donovan and Anderson might, but Lestrade won't."

"Then what are you concerned about?"

"She scares me, too."

"Yes, for someone who seems so nice, her resemblance to a _Smilodon tatalis_ is quite remarkable."

"Don't say that to her face."

The pair lapsed into silence. It was dead quiet on the other side of the door.

"How did you know it was in there?" John finally asked.

Sherlock shrugged, regardless of the fact that it was pitch black in the tiny space and John couldn't see him.

"It was the only place in the flat I hadn't looked."

"Do you think that might have been the intent?"

"Most likely. I never took her for an outside-of-the-box type."

"You're rubbing off on her. We'll be finding that thing all over the place now."

"Unless I find some way to permanently attach it."

"I don't see that going well."

Sherlock felt the side of his mouth twitch in irritation. John was right. Attaching it to the mantle would most likely result in dismemberment. Further thoughts were cut off by the mobile phone vibrating in his pocket indicating a text message. He dug it out to check the number, and frowned. According to the caller identification flashing at the top of the LCD screen, it was from John.

"Did you send me a text just now?"

"No, I left my phone in the kitchen."

He pressed the "Open" button to retrieve the message.

**I know you're there, Sherlock. Get out of that closet.**

"She found us."

"That was fast."

"She probably had Lestrade helping her. I thought I heard a sniffer dog earlier."

John took the opportunity to peek over Sherlock's shoulder to see the message.

"She's found you, you mean," he corrected. "It doesn't say anything about me. Get out there."

"You would really leave a friend to such a fate?"

"Don't tell me you wouldn't."

"In this case, no."

"You're stalling, Sherlock. Get out there and face the music."

The phone buzzed again.

**Send Dr Watson with you.**

John blinked.

"How does she do that?"

"You're stalling, John. Get out there and face the music."

"Sherlock, the next time you want to go digging through Mrs. Hudson's sock drawer, leave me out of it!"


	5. Forgiven

**Disclaimer: I own a copy of the DVD. If I owned anything more, Series 2 would already be airing in the US. That said, "A Scandal in Belgravia" was quite good.**

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><p>John was feeling the pressure against him. The Chinese circus had been a complete fiasco, the flat was a mess, Mrs. Hudson was still irritated over the incident with the sock drawer, Sherlock was still his tetchy self, and <em>now <em>he was trying to come up with something edible so Sarah wouldn't think he was a completely hopeless host. Easier said than done. He tried the refrigerator. A can of beer, an egg, an empty bottle of soy sauce, and a Petrie dish full of mold.

Yes, that would set the mood quite nicely.

He shut the door and scrambled around the kitchen until he found a clean bowl. Now he just needed something to put in it. There had to be something that wasn't serving as a breeding ground for deadly bacteria. Well aware that Sarah was trying and failing to engage Sherlock in conversation like a normal human being, John opened a cabinet to inspect a jar of what might have been pickled eggs at one point. Whatever it was, it was past its prime. He quickly put the jar back. Perhaps Sherlock could find a use for it later.

John could feel his enthusiasm plummeting as he emptied a packet of crackers into the bowl. He was just resigning himself to what was sure to go down as the worst date in his memory when he heard a familiar "Ooh-ooh!" at the door. He turned. It was Mrs. Hudson with a tray.

"A bit of punch," she explained. "And a bowl of nibbles."

"Mrs. Hudson, you are a saint!" he whispered. And he meant it.

And it was in that moment that he knew they'd been forgiven.


	6. Concering Nerds

**Disclaimer: You know the drill. Me no own; you no sue.**

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><p>John nudged the door shut behind him, closing off the bustling sounds of Baker Street. He leaned against it for a moment, enjoying the relative silence and trying to ignore the copy of the latest <em>KRATIDES <em>issue he held, which had caused him so much mortification over the past thirty minutes. Never again, as long as he lived, would he set foot in a comic shop. Ever. He would volunteer to hike across the Gobi Desert before he faced another comic shop and its bizarre inhabitants.

Not that Baker Street didn't have its own set of bizarre inhabitants to face, John decided, trumping upstairs to the sitting room. Sherlock was at the table, having confiscated John's laptop again. Anne the art student had apparently ventured from her basement artist lair to confiscate the couch. She sat with her back to the room, facing the wall, with a notepad and pencil, and gave John no indication that she'd even seen him enter. John crossed over to the table and dropped the comic over Sherlock's fast-typing fingers.

"Did you learn anything useful?" he asked, ignoring the obstruction.

"Yep," John confirmed, "just like you suspected: _KRATIDES_ sales have gone through the roof. Since we've confirmed that and I got the next issue, I guess my afternoon wasn't a total loss."

"A loss?"

"Sherlock, I just spent fifteen minutes of my life that I can't get back in a comic shop listening to a couple of geeks argue over whether or not Gollum was a hobbit!"

"Sméagol was a Stoor before he was Gollum," Anne suddenly called out in a tone that suggested this was something everybody was supposed to know. "They're river hobbits."

"Yeah, I've got that. What are you doing up here?"

"Share the fridge, don't I? Besides, this wallpaper is fascinating." She absent-mindedly scratched the tip of her nose with the pencil, leaving behind a smear. "I'm going to sketch it, scan it, pixelate it, and decimate it."

"Yes, well… Have fun with that." He edged away from her and headed for the kitchen. Tea would have been good, but they were out, Sherlock having ruined it with a Bunsen burner. Settling on a sandwich instead, John opened the refrigerator to grab a, thankfully, still-sealed package of deli meat. As he removed the package, he saw that it had served a double purpose: concealing a plastic sack of severed hands.

"This has got to stop," John muttered. He gingerly picked up the sack, watching with disgust as blood drained to the bottom, and returned to the sitting room. "Sherlock! Whose hands are these?"

"Oh, those are mine." Anne leapt up from the couch, tossing her notepad aside. "I was helping a friend make severed hands for a short film he's doing. Thought I'd lost them. Sorry about that." She cheerfully accepted the sack, grabbed her notepad from the couch, and disappeared back downstairs, presumably to the cave she called home. Suddenly not hungry anymore, John returned the meat to the refrigerator.

"You need to replace her fridge," he said, sitting down.

"Why?"

John glowered at the detective, briefly considering an attempt to reclaim his laptop but decided it would be just as ineffective as changing the password again.

"Because you're the reason it broke in the first place," he explained, "because it's the right thing to do, and because one collector of obscure body parts that require refrigeration is enough!"

The detective either didn't hear him, or was choosing not to. John suspected it was the latter. Realizing that an argument over it wouldn't fix anything, he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, hoping that maybe he could forget the events of the past afternoon.

"For the record," Sherlock said, smirking just slightly as he looked over the laptop. "Stoors are the only hobbits that can grow facial hair."

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><p><strong>AN: On a completely unrelated note, I love TV shows where there's that one neighbor who's always waltzing into the main character's apartment like they live there, don't you?**


	7. Candid Camera

**My brother had his wisdom teeth taken out last week and we've discovered he doesn't react well to laughing gas. Guess where Sherlock's line about the wallpaper came from.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Not even close.**

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><p>The cab ride from Irene Adler's to Baker Street was probably the most mortifying John had ever experienced. He entered the 221 flat with Lestrade at his side and an incoherent Sherlock Holmes sort of dangled between them. The detective was babbling disjointedly and struggling to get away, his eyes half open and out of focus. Under other circumstances, it would have been funny.<p>

"What," Lestrade panted, "exactly… happened… to him?"

"I'm not sure."

"S'right there!" Sherlock slurred, pointing at some phantom object. "John, s'right there!"

Lestrade's eyes darted toward the stairs, as if he'd half-expected to see something. "What is it?"

"I don't know." John tightened his grip on Sherlock's shoulder. "Let's just get him upstairs before he vomits on Mrs. Hudson's rug."

They drug him up the stairs and into the sitting room, where he pitched forward and landed on the sofa. He sat up, staring at the wall and looking quite disturbed.

"John, the wallpaper's moving. Why is it moving?"

While John was trying to wrangle the detective, Lestrade ran his hand in his coat pocket and pulled out his mobile phone under the pretense of receiving a text. Sherlock took a swipe at the wall.

"It's moving! John, there's something living in there!" He started smacking it with his palm.

"Okay, that's enough. Come on."

John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and hoisted him upright. The detective slung his arms around, apparently still trying to swat the wallpaper. He staggered sideways, guided by John toward the kitchen.

"S'right there," he mumbled again, pointing at the stove. "Over there!"

John herded him around the table and down to the bedroom, slightly conscious of Lestrade following them. Sherlock was oblivious, still taking the occasional swing at the wall.

"S'right over there," he repeated. "S'followed us here."

"It'll be gone in the morning," John assured him, shoving him down on the bed. Sherlock landed facedown, but rolled over to view the ceiling.

"It's still moving!" he cried.

"Will you stop thrashing around?" John inquired, although he knew it was pointless. "Let me get your shoes off." He held one of Sherlock's legs in an arm lock as he grappled with one of the shoes in question. The last thing he needed was Mrs. Hudson informing him that Sherlock had kicked a hole in the wall during this little episode.

Shoes finally removed, John stowed them under the bed and left Sherlock to his incoherent ramblings about flying snakes at a circus. Lestrade, who had been lingering in the doorway the whole time with an ill-concealed smile, quickly returned his mobile phone to his pocket and backed away. John followed him back to the sitting room, a suspicion forming in his mind.

"Did you film him on your phone?" he asked.

"No, of course not," Lestrade assured him. "It wouldn't be right."

"Mm-hmm."

"Do you want me to send it to you?"

John considered.

"Yeah, all right."


	8. The Scientific Method, Part I

**Disclaimer: Do I look like I own the BBC? Didn't think so.**

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><p><em>Form a hypothesis, conduct an experiment, duplicate the results, analyze the data, form a conclusion.<em>

John was in New Zealand. Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock _did _notice when he was gone. That didn't stop the detective from acting like he was still there. He hadn't had a case in almost two weeks. Certain objects in the kitchen would be on fire in exactly three-point-two-five minutes if something interesting didn't come along before then.

It wasn't entirely John's fault, he supposed. How was he supposed to know that nothing would come along while he was away? Still, it was rather inconsiderate. In fact, it was incredibly inconsiderate.

_Form a hypothesis, conduct an experiment, duplicate the results, analyze the data, form a conclusion._

That mantra from primary school was chanting in Sherlock's brain. He needed something to do. Something that stimulated his brain without self-destructing it. He needed a case. Or cigarettes. He ambled over to the window and sat down. The weather was nice. Perhaps there would be something interesting in the street.

Mrs. Hudson had finally rented out the basement flat yesterday to a desperate exchange student from some university he hadn't bothered to get the name of. Nor had he bothered to get the reason why she needed the flat in the first place. Some sort of housing mix-up he supposed, watching her carry a cardboard packing box inside with only the mildest of interest. She needed to adjust her grip. Anyone with half a brain could see that the bottom was about to give. And there it went.

_Silly girl,_ he thought, watching the contents spill out and bounce down the steps. It looked to be cosmetics and hair care products. The usual fare of a university-aged woman. It also appeared to be an inferior brand of shampoo, which suggested that— Good grief! He needed a case and he needed it fast! Surely, _surely,_ he could find something better to do than make deductions about a person he couldn't even show off to.

He glanced around the sitting room. A pile of papers full of case notes and research needed organizing. Boring. His eyes went to the cow skull. The headphones were on crooked. He could straighten them. Dull. There was always the mold collection in the kitchen. He could— no, he couldn't. Mrs. Hudson had thrown it out on Wednesday. He supposed he could update his website and add those twelve new types of tobacco ash he'd identified. But John had taken his laptop with him. So much for that idea.

_Form a hypothesis, conduct an experiment, duplicate the results, analyze the data, form a conclusion!_

He really hated his brain right now.

With a resigned sigh, Sherlock returned his attention to the window. The inferior brand of shampoo suggested that she didn't have the money to buy anything better and explained why her hair was so lackluster. She was also under stress. She wore black-rimmed retro-style glasses that didn't disguise the fact that she had dark circles under her eyes indicating a lack of sleep. She was thin, but her clothes draped over her frame loosely, so she'd recently lost weight. Stress. Probably a combination of school and family since she'd dyed a strip of her light brown hair a vibrant magenta in some juvenile act of rebellion and declaration of personal identity.

She didn't care much for personal appearance. Her clothes, denim jeans and a gray university T-shirt, were splattered with various splotches of oil paint, gouache, and some unidentifiable stain that may or may not have been motor oil. There was another smear of blue paint on her left cheek. She was only wearing one earring. So she was absent-minded, suggesting a mental preoccupation with something more important. Again, back to the stress. Whatever was causing it was causing her scatterbrained persona. But that didn't really matter.

_Form a hypothesis._

What hypothesis could he form from her? Nothing that couldn't be confirmed just by looking at her. Or perhaps not. She was an art student, that much was obvious, but unlike the stereotypical artist she didn't appear to be short-fused or overly dramatic. She'd seemed more depressed than annoyed when the box broke, but it was almost always the long-fused ones that erupted so violently. So what did it take to set her off? Something drastic, he would wager. How drastic?

_Conduct an experiment._

She had missed the shampoo bottle when she was retrieving her stuff. It had rolled away from the steps, apparently out of her near-sighted line of vision. A Good Samaritan would go get it for her. A Bad Samaritan would take it to the 221B kitchen-cum-laboratory first.

Sherlock stretched languidly in his chair, stood up, and sauntered downstairs.

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><p>"Hello, I'm Sherlock Holmes," he said congenially when she opened the door. "I live in the flat upstairs. I was just on my way out and I'd noticed you dropped this."<p>

He handed her the bottle with a disarming smile. She accepted it, thanked him politely, and shut the door. Sherlock's expression changed from innocent to cat-caught-the-canary as he retreated upstairs.

There would be no need to duplicate the results.


	9. The Scientific Method, Part II

**Let's just pretend it hasn't been a year since I updated this, shall we? The follow-up to the experiment Sherlock conducted in the previous chapter.**

**I own nothing but Anne, and even _she_ doesn't listen to me.**

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><p>The London weather seemed dreary after New Zealand. John supposed that was to be expected. He and Sarah had parted at Heathrow. He'd wanted to at least see her home first, but he supposed it was easier and less awkward for both of them this way. He didn't blame her in the slightest for wanting to end it; he should've known from the beginning that life as Sherlock Holmes' colleagueroommate/keeper would be rough on relationships.

Thinking of Sherlock reminded him that the good detective had been left to his own devices for quite some time now, and John was more than a little relieved to discover that neither Baker Street nor the flat had burned down in his absence. Although, he admitted, it was possible it was just a façade. The interior of the flat could've been completely demolished for all he knew, but he certainly hoped Mrs. Hudson would've called him had that been the case. He paid the cab fare, grabbed his luggage, and went inside with only the slightest hint of trepidation.

Everything in the entryway appeared normal, John decided as he looked around. He could hear Mrs. Hudson puttering away in the kitchen. Feeling slightly relieved that his time away had passed without incident, he quickly climbed the two flights of stairs to his room to deposit his bags and start unpacking. That had been the plan, at least. Jet-lag finally caught up with him, and John was soon out cold, sprawled across his bed on top of the covers.

A woman's shriek pierced through John's dreams, forcing him awake in an instant. His thoughts immediately going to Mrs. Hudson, he jumped up and stumbled to the door, doing his best not to trip down the stairs. As he reached the landing, he redirected his course to the sitting room and the enraged female voice coming from within. A quick assessment of Sherlock in his chair with his violin and his patently bored, sardonic expression told John there was no cause for immediate alarm, so he turned his attention to the visitor.

It was a woman, more of a girl, really. Probably in university. Her clothes were shabby and splattered with paint, but the doctor in him was more concerned with the way they hung loosely around her scrawny frame in a way that suggested she hadn't been eating properly of late. Her accent was American, and judging from the colorful verbal abuse she was hurling at the nonchalant consulting detective, she was livid.

John didn't have to be a genius to see why. Her shoulder-length hair was bright orange, and he suspected that wasn't its original color. It gave her an unfortunate resemblance to a plant from the Jungle of Nool.

"What makes you think," Sherlock inquired coolly, giving one of the violin strings a pluck, "that I had anything to do with your unfortunate… mishap?"

"You were the last person to have my shampoo bottle. In fact, I'm pretty sure you're the _only _person who's had my shampoo bottle besides me. And don't you dare try to blame it on manufacturer, because I'd already used half the bottle before I came here, and it sure as hell didn't turn my hair orange before!"

John cleared his throat. The girl spun around.

"Is there a problem?"

"No," she said tersely. "No problem. Just that I have to go to class tomorrow looking like Bozo the frickin' Clown, and _this _man," she jerked her head in Sherlock's direction, "won't even have the decency to admit he sabotaged my shampoo. Do you live here, too?"

"I do. I'm John. John Watson." He offered his hand for her to shake, which she did, albeit curtly.

"Anne Henley. Just moved in downstairs. Would probably be moving out if I had somewhere else to go."

She threw Sherlock an infuriated look, and stormed out of the room.

As John sank down into his armchair, Sherlock muttered something that sounded like, "Hypothesis confirmed."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Suspicion was forming in John's mind as he sat there watching Sherlock plucking away at his violin.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you really do something to that girl's shampoo?"

Sherlock's bored, sardonic face changed into an amused smirk, clearly pleased with something.

"I employed the scientific method, John. Nothing more."

The detective picked up his bow and drew it across the violin.

_Form a hypothesis, conduct an experiment, duplicate the results, analyze the data, form a conclusion._


End file.
